Works of Art
by Hutchie
Summary: An AU.  Starsky is an artist.  Hutch is his new model.  Gen  but has some adult content/references .


_Written for Nickygabriel, for the auction she won for help_japan. This is an AU._

**Works of Art**

by Allie

"So all I have to do is wear this Roman costume, and let you take photographs?" asked the blond man named Hutchinson. His voice held caution, and his eyes looked older than the rest of him, but still startlingly blue.

Starsky wasn't sure if the blue eyes would work for his illustrations, but the physique was perfect: a big sturdy guy with good proportions, hands and face all quite nice, surprisingly expressive.

He'd seemed nervous since arriving to apply for the job, on edge. Perhaps he didn't usually work as a model. Needing extra money for something? Starsky told himself to be less nosy, to get on with his job and stop trying to guess things about people.

Being a photographer and illustrator did make him a bit nosy about people, he sometimes thought. He'd look at famous paintings and try to guess about the people in them. You stared at a picture long enough, you felt like you knew the people, and really cared about them. He tried to put that into his art and photographs as well, a sense of more than just their faces, something of what was behind their faces and steering their lives.

It could lead him to nosiness, though, he knew. He'd have to be careful, especially with this man so skittish to begin with.

"Yes," he answered the question. "Just don the gear, and pose, and I'll take pictures of you. Normally I like to work from a live model, but you wouldn't be able to hold some of the poses for long."

"…Poses?"

"Yeah, you've got to look like you're running. That's better if you're actually moving and I just take a bunch of quick pictures and then use the ones that turn out best to draw from. Then holding the spear, like this—" He reached for, and gently took the spear from the blond man, who'd been holding it awkwardly, feeling the wood as they talked. Starsky raised it up and demonstrated what he wanted, an attack pose. "Try to look fierce, determined," he added, handing the spear back carefully.

A variety of expressions played across the blond man's face. He had something sensitive, vulnerable about his expression, though he was taller than Starsky (slightly), and muscular and strong-looking.

This man looked ready to bolt, Starsky realized with a start. And he was certainly the best model that had appeared so far for the money Starsky could afford to pay. Starsky had advertised in the newspaper, when there were no models down at the art institute that fit what he needed. It was surprisingly difficult to find someone who really looked like a Roman soldier to Starsky.

He'd gotten an excellent contract for illustrating a children's book that was a mix of fiction and nonfiction. It had a story in the front about a Roman soldier, and in the back, information about the real lives of the Romans. Starsky would be illustrating the front section and the cover. He'd done a lot of research, and gotten all the costumes he could, but he still needed a good model.

Starsky sometimes wished he was less of a literal artist. He really needed to see what he was painting for it to come out right; this was why he sometimes preferred photography, though he loved the sheer physicality of painting, the smell of paint, the tactile brushes in his hands and the brushstrokes on the canvas, beautiful each in distinction, yet somehow making something even more beautiful together.

He could get lost in the beauty of paint, slow and beautiful and meditative, a medium you could keep tinkering with, while a photograph was something quick and sharp, and as imprecise as trying to catch a waterfall in your hands. But sometimes, you captured and preserved the most beautiful surprises.

He gave Hutchinson a smile, and stepped away from him slightly, feeling subconsciously that he was somehow intimidating the other man. He could come across as tough, even dangerous sometimes, but thought he had been pretty relaxed and friendly with this man. Perhaps it was just Hutchinson; he seemed awfully nervous about something.

"Care for a cup of coffee? Or a drink?" offered Starsky, casting him a friendly smile and moving away smoothly. He walked past his favorite picture, hanging on the wall, and touched it as he did each time he passed it, as if to recapture the feeling of that sun and the light through the leaves on that perfect day.

"Drink?" Hutchinson's voice got slightly higher, a nervous quality, as though the question were tinged for him, with great weighted meaning that left him even more nervous.

"Coffee, then," said Starsky smoothly, and went to pour one without waiting for an answer.

He poured two large mugs. The mugs were an art house variety, made by one of his art school friends. Ugly as sin, but they held a lot of coffee, and kept it warm for a very long time.

He loved those mugs, though they were a horrible green/brown color and certainly had offended him aesthetically when he was first given them as a Christmas present. Then he had used them to be kind towards his friend, and then he had found he loved them, loved the feel and weight of them and the manly way they made him feel, drinking from a great caveman mug.

He cast Hutchinson a smile again. "Cream? Sugar?"

Hutchinson shrugged as though the question didn't matter to him. Strange. Most people could at least decide what they wanted in their coffee.

"I'll give you both," said Starsky. He liked it that way, and the other man looked like he needed a jolt of sugar, or something, in his blood stream.

Starsky stopped mid-pour, as the realization of what that meant hit him. 'Or something.'

He poured a liberal stream of cream, added sugar and stirred briskly, banging the teaspoon in the process to hear the way it sounded against the mug. He gave the man a nice smile, and handed him the coffee, two-handed. "Here. Drink it down."

He watched, to be certain Hutchinson would at least sip it.

Hutchinson did, cautiously, as though it were poisoned. He made a face, like a finicky cat turning its nose up at something any normal animal would've found delicious.

"Ah, don't be picky, it's a good blend."

"Too much sugar," suggested Hutchinson, lowering the cup. He had a coffee mustache. It made him look disheveled and somehow endearing, because he didn't realize he looked silly.

Starsky turned away to hide the twitching of his mouth, trying not to laugh at the sight. This aristocratic, picky, nervous, perfect-for-the-Roman-model—

Drug addict. There that thought was again.

_This is what comes of watching people too closely, Starsky! _he upbraided himself. _ You suspect them of all sorts of things, you make up stories for them, and probably unfairly. It doesn't matter for most things, but when you come up with something like this…._

Again he tried to push the thoughts away. "Care for some cookies? They're fresh, bought 'em this morning." He moved to the kitchen, restlessly, and Hutchinson followed him, quiet and shadow-like. He moved surprisingly silently for so large a man.

But then he seemed like a ghost in other ways, too, a shadow of whoever he'd once been. And he wore long sleeves on a warm day, didn't he?

They somehow ended up at the table, and Hutchinson ate two of the chocolate chip cookies. (Starsky felt strangely cheered, as though he'd accomplished something by gaining even this much trust from the man.)

"So you'll think about it? Job starts tomorrow, if you're ready," he added, and repeated the amount he was willing to pay.

Hutchinson glanced at his face once again, and then nodded. "Thanks," he said. "I'll be here." He rose too fast, almost knocking over the chair, and looking back at it, startled, when it scraped on the floor. He had cookie crumbs on his mouth now, along with some pale brown coffee. The man needed a keeper. Starsky resisted the urge to tell him about it, or laugh, or swipe at that face; he feared any of these actions would've wrecked whatever fragile trust he was building.

He needed this Roman soldier model for this commission. And he very much wanted to find out this man's story now, too.

#

Starsky looked up from his sketch at the sound of the doorbell. For a moment, he didn't remember where he was or who or who could be visiting. Then the intense, immersive experience of his art drained away, as if he were rising to the surface of water for a breath. It left him feeling off-balanced, being pulled so quickly from the experience that he found so immersive.

He stuck his charcoal pencil behind his ear and padded to the door, still thinking of the study of light and shadow on a sad clown's face that he'd been sketching from a photograph he took last year. Sometimes he didn't turn all of his pictures into art—in fact most of them he did not—but occasionally he'd find something that insisted, that called out to him, and so he would sketch or paint it, trying to capture something of what he'd seen in the photograph.

The clown had been a good subject, but you had to be in the right mood for clown art. It was somehow both more personal, and more impersonal than most other kinds of art.

He pulled the door open, and faced nervous blue eyes, a tall man with blond hair faintly glowing in the morning light. Startled blue eyes matched the blue of Hutchinson's turtleneck, and he wore crisp, clean white cords. Starsky blinked at him in surprise as well, and realized he himself was wearing his oldest pair of jeans, neither shoes nor socks, and a half open, very raggedy old red flannel shirt with holes in the elbows, and paint stains on the front. One of his favorite art shirts, but certainly not suitable for company.

"Sorry, forgot the time." He pulled the door open. "C'mon and get ready, I'll change into something better."

Hutchinson stepped cautiously over the threshold. "You're an artist. I guess you can dress however you want."

Starsky smiled. "I guess, but it doesn't send the right impression, does it?" He reached up and fluffed his curls, and drew the pencil from behind his ear. "You ever notice how clowns seem to bring out what a person's feeling?"

Hutchinson sent him a confused, brow-wrinkled look. "Huh?"

Starsky smiled. "Sorry, just thinking about clowns. I was trying to draw one." He gestured to the charcoal sketch, halfway completed, all the outlines there but none of the finishing touches. He'd been trying to get the general shape, and had just started on the sad, haunted look in the clown's eyes when he was interrupted.

Starsky put his charcoal pencil down on the easel, and turned to glance at his model.

Hutchinson stood stock still in front of the picture and stared at it. The color had drained from his face, a rather pale face to begin with.

Starsky glanced at him with concern. "You okay? Need some coffee, something to eat?" He always seemed to be trying to feed this man.

"No, I'm— I'm fine. It just—startled me." He cast one last, haunted glance at the clown drawing and turned away, running a hand back through his neatly combed hair, messing it up. Like spun gold, thought Starsky, itching to try to capture that frowzy, disheveled look. There was something vulnerable about this man that just begged to be interpreted on paper or film.

"Go ahead, the costumes are over there. I'll change, and bring some coffee in case you change your mind." Starsky shook himself out of his silly thoughts as he left the room. His parents used to tell him he daydreamed too much, and he was beginning to think they were right.

He slipped into a pair of nice slacks (since he wouldn't be working with paint now, only the camera), and a blue shirt with a collar. He slid on his good shoes and went to check on the coffee, poured two cups, added cream but no sugar to Hutchinson's, and both to his own.

"Here ya go." He smiled, and held one mug out to a distracted-looking Roman soldier who was having trouble getting his helmet on. "Head too big?" Starsky asked, feeling his mouth quirk up in a smile, more on one side than the other.

Hutchinson blushed faintly. "I—I just can't get—" Nervous fingers fumbled with the helmet.

Starsky put the coffee cups down and reached out to help him.

"I c-can do it." Hutchinson stumbled backwards, a stutter matching the nervous look in his eyes.

Starsky dropped his hands. "Sure, course you can," he said brightly, to cover the sinking feeling that something was WRONG here. Hutchinson should not be nervous of him. But, he was. He didn't know he could trust Starsky. Yet.

_I'll treat him right, pay him on time, encourage him and give him plenty of refreshments._ It was all Starsky could do for now.

"There's your coffee, if you want it," said Starsky, and headed back, sipping his own, to fetch his cameras.

After a few minutes of fiddling with equipment (for him) and fiddling with costumes (for Hutchinson), they were ready to begin.

"Just walk around a little, get used to the feel of it. It's best to look natural, so don't mind if I take a few shots. I just need to get started. There's no pressure, no special poses necessary, okay?"

Hutchinson nodded, and began to walk around the room, carrying his equipment (spear and shield) awkwardly, and pushing his helmet back, trying to find a comfortable place for it. Starsky clicked a few shots to get the feel and the lighting and angles.

Hutchinson glanced at him at the sound of the first photograph, and then went back to what he was doing.

"Hutchinson, Hutchinson," said Starsky.

"What?" The man glanced at him uncertainly.

"It's too long. What can I call you instead? Hutch?"

A smile twitched Hutchinson's mouth. "I had a friend who used to call me that."

"What, 'Hutch'?" Starsky smiled and looked through the camera, and captured that hint of happiness on Hutchinson's mouth.

"Yeah. You—I guess you could call me that," said Hutch turning away, covering his embarrassment or shyness. Man, he certainly was an awkward guy. It was going to be difficult getting him to pose unselfconsciously.

"Just relax," said Starsky. "Get your bearings. Play with it a little. C'mon, have some fun! It'll help you get into the right mood."

Hutch rolled his eyes. "Play? This is a job, Starsky—your job. Don't you want me to take it seriously?"

"Not as seriously as you're takin' it. C'mon." He put the camera down and advanced on Hutch, picking up one of the extra prop swords as he went. "Like this!" He made a mock thrust with the sword at Hutchinson's chest armor.

His sword came up awkwardly and blocked against Starsky's. A quick grin and sidestep from Hutch showed Starsky that the man might not be past hope after all.

"Now you're getting it, kid," said Starsky encouragingly.

For several minutes, they grinned and play-fought with the swords like children. Starsky thought he had some pretty fancy footwork. The blond man loosened up a lot and even got a few good hits of his own in.

At last Starsky tossed aside the sword and bowed theatrically from the waist to Hutch. "I surrender—do not slay me, kind knight!"

"Knight!" Hutch laughed and shoved back his helmet, revealing now-messy blond hair that was just slightly too long. "You've got the wrong era, buddy."

"I know." Starsky raced back for his camera, a laugh on his lips, and almost tripped over the chair they'd knocked over during the fight. He grabbed the camera, and snapped a few quick, off-focus shots of Hutch, who was still holding his sword, his helmet and hair in disarray, but his smile in place just right. Not that you needed the Roman soldier to smile for illustrations. But still.

Hutchinson saw him snapping and seemed to lose some of his good mood. He tried to stand straight, and reached up a tentative hand to adjust his helmet.

Starsky wanted to thump him upside the head and tell him to stop it, just act natural. But that would only ruin the trust he was earning. Besides, Hutch was coming along quite well—just a little slower than he'd have liked. But you had to account for the fact he was new to this modeling stuff.

At least, Starsky assumed he was. "Hutch, you ever done this before?"

The blond man startled, his eyelids fluttering a little and a clueless, nervously blank look descending on his face. "Done w-what?"

"Modeled." Starsky snapped another picture with an air of finality and a feeling of defeat. Man, you couldn't say anything to this guy!

Hutch said, "Uhm…how about that coffee? You said I could have some coffee."

Starsky recognized such an obvious change of subject, but let it go. "Fair enough. All that hard work, you must be thirsty." He cast the man an amused, teasing look, but didn't get any reaction; Hutch was staring at the floor, and at one boot in particular.

"Aww, c'mon, I don't mean anything," said Starsky. He grabbed a coffee cup. "Cream, no sugar?" he asked.

"Just black." Hutch had a quiet, soft voice. He followed Starsky into the kitchen, trailing after him.

Starsky turned and pressed the warm coffee mug into his model's hands. He smiled into the man's eyes. "Don't pay me any mind, Hutch. I don't mean to pry, just naturally curious."

Hutch smiled uncertainly and sipped his coffee to cover whatever he was feeling. "Thanks," he mumbled, raising the mug.

#

The first two sessions went surprisingly well. Hutch began to loosen up and pose less self-consciously. He seemed to feel that if he wasn't serious, it was play instead of work, but Starsky got his best pictures when it was 'play.'

After the first photography session, he had enough to begin his first illustration, a small line drawing of the soldier standing guard. He drew it far larger than it would appear in the book he was being paid to illustrate. It worked better that way, if you drew it large and then they shrunk it down for printing. It made the details look sharper and more precise.

Today, the lines went down easily even from the first, allowing Starsky to capture with perfectly the conscientious stance of the man who had stood there, holding the spear, trying hard to do what Starsky wanted. It came through in the picture. In the drawing, it looked as though he were trying hard to be the best soldier he could possibly be, guarding…keeping anyone from getting past. A lone man, just one man, ready to take on the world to do his duty.

Starsky grew sentimental drawing that picture. He thought it would be wonderful if all the work was this easy—if his muse would never leave him.

Of course, that did not prove to be the case. Some days Hutch was impossible, all jittery nerves and shying from the camera (and Starsky) as though they meant to attack him. Or he would get snappish and grumpy, grumbling about the helmet, for instance. He still had trouble getting it to fit right. Starsky told him it was because his head was too big. The blond head snapped up at this remark, and for a moment, Starsky saw pure fire in those blue eyes, a glimpse of a dangerous, very alive man that disappeared quickly. At least he had not just looked passively unhappy—for however briefly. Starsky grinned at him, daring him to argue. But Hutch just shrugged, and went back to his brooding grumpiness.

All in all, it sometimes seemed a miracle if Starsky got any workable shots. But he did; the camera loved Hutch, when he could forget himself and be in the moment.

But, even with the proper shots, Starsky struggled with the larger illustrations—the splashy oil paintings. It was one thing to do a charcoal sketch of soldier-Hutch standing guard. It was quite another to show him in an action pose, ready to attack in the midst of a battle. The battle scene, though complicated and requiring much work, was easy in comparison to Hutch. When it came time to paint the face—the eyes—the expression—it seemed to come out flat. He couldn't get it right!

He must've painted over it half a dozen times, trying again and to get the expression, to capture the face he'd seen in Hutch's modeling session.

The trouble was, this man was still a stranger to him. He could catch glimpses—sparks—but that was all. He still hadn't seen the man inside, and that was coming through in his painting. It was so frustrating. He knew the picture was somewhere, he just had to capture it. But, like so much of his art, he had to SEE it to capture it. And he hadn't seen it yet, despite the perfection of the rest of the painting.

He might even be able to fudge it, to finish it as it was, but HE would always know it hadn't been right, that he hadn't captured either the soldier or Hutch.

So, sighing and running a hand back through his hair, frowning once again at the frustrating illustration, he picked up the phone, and called Hutch.

"Hey. I need you again. Can you model some more, tomorrow? In person, not for the camera. I'm having trouble getting the expression right."

"Uh…" Hutch sounded funny, spacey and out of it. "Who's…oh, S-Starsky." He seemed to have to search for the name. A long pause. "Yeah, okay."

"Ten o'clock?" asked Starsky, when the other man didn't say anything more. "Is that okay? Can you make it?"

"Uh huh. Ten o'clock."

"Hey, you all right, Hutch? You sound funny."

"I am funny." A laugh, and the phone hung up.

Starsky stared worriedly at the receiver. Then his eyes travelled to the half-finished painting, and the blank, unfinished face he saw there. The missing man, who wasn't quite there.

He felt a cold shiver up his spine. _Hutch—what are you into, Hutch?_

#

Hutch sat in a chair before him, wearing long sleeves, though it wasn't cold. He looked somehow…lost. Huddled in a sweater that was too big for him. Eyes far away, and still somehow otherworldly.

He was so on drugs. Starsky had been right in the first place, but he'd talked himself out of believing his own cautious nature. Then he'd let down his guard, and started to care about this guy, even think of him as a friend, and now it was happening all over again.

His jaw tightened as he sketched quick lines, the outlines of Hutch's face. Without eyes or mouth.

"You're not 'here' today, Hutch," he said quietly, trying to keep the accusation out of his tone. "You're no good to me like this. And you're no good to yourself." He stood up, sliding the pencil behind his ear, and walked over, firms steps taking him towards the confused-looking druggie.

Starsky caught his arm before Hutch realized what was going on, and pushed the sleeve up. "Track marks," he said, and dropped the arm. He stared at Hutchinson in a mixture of frustration, anger, and grief. "Why, Hutch? Why do you do it to yourself?"

Hutch's gaze met his briefly, and then that so-blue gaze skittered away. He shrugged, miserably, and pushed his sleeve down. "I tried it, and—I got hooked. I liked it. I kept going back for more, till it wasn't me controlling the drug, it was controlling me. And I—had to—to scrounge for work, because I couldn't keep a good job, and I—I did a few things I'm not too proud of." He stared at the floor.

Silence like broken glass lay between them.

"I've been trying to cut back," offered Hutch looking up apologetically, his brow wrinkling with a deep furrow of guilt.

"And sometimes cutting back because you couldn't afford it. And that's the only reason you took this job, isn't it? Drug money." Starsky spoke with disgust.

"No, I—I… I like working with you. I thought it was gonna be a different sort of…picture job, and I wouldn't be able to stand it. But it's…nice. You…you've been helping me, Starsk. You treat me like a real person. Well, you did. That helps. Yeah, I slipped up again. I had too much last night. I'll have to work my way back down again. But I can do it. I think I can really do it this time."

"Hutch…" A frustrated sigh rent from Starsky. Was this guy for real? Did he mean this? Or was he just trying to make Starsky start to care again, so he could get hurt all over again, devastated when—

He met those blue eyes that somehow implored him not to think the worst, not to judge him but instead to somehow believe in him. Tears swam in them, unshed, pleading.

Maybe it wasn't an act.

Maybe.

"Hutch, if you're serious, then you need to get some help. Because people need help to get off addictions. It's—it's not a one-man show." He swallowed, hard. "If you need some help paying for a place to go—well—I—I have a little money stocked away."

"I can't let you do that." Hutch's answer was immediate, emphatic, and shocked.

"Well, I guess I could keep my money and let you overdose and kill yourself," said Starsky roughly. He rose, agitated, and walked around the chair. He leaned on the back and glared down at Hutch across it, his own eyes swimming with grief and guilt.

"I had two friends in art school, Hutch. They both got into drugs. Thought it would be a—a nice relaxation method, or help them get more creative. One of 'em burned his brains out. You can be in the same room with him, and he doesn't even see you. The other one is dead."

Hutch looked up at him with a tearful expression of worried horror. "I'm—sorry. I didn't mean to bring that up for you." He rose. "I'll—go. I'll g-get out of your life, S-Starsk."

"Hutch." Starsky moved past the chair, knocking it over in his haste, and grabbed the blond man by one arm. "Hutch, I'm the third one." He swallowed, and bobbed his head, meeting Hutch's shocked gaze. "I got some help. And I'm clean. I've been clean for nine years." He gestured to the walls. "I don't need it to make art. I don't need it to—to feel good, because it doesn't make me feel good for real, or for long. I—I need to live, and I can't do that with drugs. You can't either. So…don't walk away. Don't—cut down on your own. Let me call the place that helped me, and set you up. I don't—care about anything else. We'll finish—I'll do the rest of the pictures from the photos." He gestured vaguely to his crowded work space. "I don't—I don't care about that," he finished awkwardly, and swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. "I just don't want to see you die."

Hutch's eyes were swimming. He sat down slowly, and nodded. "How is it, Starsky, that I've known you for two weeks, and you care more about me than people who've known me all my life? My parents—" The words came out as a croak. "They gave up on me the second they heard. I wish…" He slumped in the chair, ran a hand back through his hair. "I'll do it. I'll go wherever you want. And I'll pay you back, when I'm—when I'm well." He looked up, unshed tears glittering in his eyes. "Thanks, Starsk."

Starsky didn't have any words. So he just put his arms around Hutch and hugged him, and gave that big awkward blond man a few rough pats on the back.

"Thank you, Hutch," he managed at last.

#

Addictions, Starsky knew, aren't easy to overcome. He still sometimes felt the singing lure of desire in his veins. How foolish he'd been, back then, thinking he could play with it and not get bitten or burned.

Well, he'd made it through the other side and Hutch would, too.

It was a month into Hutch's rehab, and he was progressing as well as could be expected. The doctors said he really seemed to want to get better and was working hard in the therapy.

When Starsky was allowed to see him, he looked shrunken, hurting, but his smile was very brave. He looked a little healthier and his smile held hope. He didn't look right in the beige scrubs they wore here, though.

Starsky remembered how he'd felt; the sight of Hutch looking so awkward in those clothes brought it all back. He'd felt like he didn't belong in his own skin, much less here, wearing this. The place had many rules which had seemed stupid at the time. But in the end they'd helped Starsky, and he'd developed a reluctant gratitude for the strictness that had kept him clean during the first, difficult days. He'd needed to start fresh, and needed to not have extra pockets for hiding things in. Just in case.

The one piece of personal clothing he'd been allowed to have right from the beginning was his favorite sweater—a big, floppy, white, belted sweater with black designs. It was a great comfort to him. He'd wanted to bring something like that to comfort Hutch.

He smiled at the sight of Hutch, walking hesitantly towards him. Hutch's steps quickening, glad for a visitor. Starsky felt his smile stretching wide and happy and held out a box wrapped in a ribbon. They'd tied it up for him at the store, when he said it was a gift.

"For me? You shouldn't," said Hutch, looking really pleased as he accepted the gift.

"Maybe you could smile a little less hard when you say that," suggested Starsky, and watched as his friend undid the ribbon and opened the box.

"A sweater! And it's blue!" A wide, incredulous grin. "Thanks, Starsk!"

Starsky ducked his head, embarrassed. He pulled out the second thing, the folder, quickly. "I also wanted to show you something." Starsky opened it to reveal a finished line drawing of a Roman soldier, standing at attention. He flipped through, showing another, and another—different poses that Hutch had done converted into illustrations capturing his expression and aliveness with, Starsky was proud to say, a good hand. It was some of his best work.

"Starsk, these are amazing!" Hutch seemed completely taken up by it, forgetting himself and his awkwardness completely in his pride over Starsky's work. "You made these look better than I ever could have posed!"

Starsky drew a breath, and felt a smile blooming on his face. "No, Hutch, I made 'em just like you. Because you are that strong. And you are going to make it, just like I did."

The blond man looked at him, wet-eyed, awed. "I—thanks, Starsky," he croaked. "I hope so. I'm starting to think—I might."

"Well, when you're out of here, I wouldn't mind working with you again sometime," said Starsky. "Maybe there'll be other illustration projects, and—"

"No," said Hutch.

Starsky blinked. "No?"

Hutch shook his head gently. "I don't need—I don't want—you to look after me forever, or find work for me. I need to make it on my own. And I'll be able to—to find some kind of work, once I'm clean. If—if I do managed to get clean. But, I'd—I'd like t-to stay friends with you. If, if that's okay?" There was hesitation and doubt in his eyes that Starsky hated to see.

"It's more than okay," said Starsky. "It's the way it has to be."

"Thanks." Hutch's smile bloomed again, looking relieved, flattered, and so glad.

"C'mere, you." Starsky pulled his friend into a bear hug, smiling.

Hutch returned the hug, wrapping his arms around Starsky. They stood in the hallway for several recharging moments. Somehow, it felt just right.


End file.
